


The Editor's Blood Hound

by MissTantabis



Series: The Editor is my Master [1]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Gen, Slice of Life, hitman childermass, master lascelles, tw murder, tw violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 07:16:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7608790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissTantabis/pseuds/MissTantabis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mister Lascelles has one man, who always does the works that are rather gruesome and not the job of a gentleman. They call him the Editor's Blood Hound, his night shade, when in reality his name is John Childermass. And his master has another task for him.<br/>(AU where Childermass is Henry Lascelles' hitman.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Editor's Blood Hound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ilthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/gifts).



Autumns were a stormy season. Clouds hovered over London and the rain splashed on the cobblestone as if it wished to drown the latter. It ran into his collar, soaked itself through his boots and sprinkled against the brim off his cylinder. Childermass pushed the cloak around him in an attempt to shield himself from the rain (not that he particularly cared about the wet ill, however what he was delivering should not get wet and dirty).

He hurried down the streets and entered a slender, tall building with white windows and a small garden surrounding it. The green paint was pale. The house looked expensive, towering in the street. Dark curtains shielded its inhabitant from view. Childermass' shoes crunched over the path as he crossed the garden and stopped by the kitchen's back entrance.

He took a hold off the knob and tried to open it. It stuck. An annoyed groan left Childermass' lips.  _ Not again! _ This door always blocked when it was wet and autumn. The dark coated man lifted a fist and hammered against it several times. “Tobias!”, he shouted, “Open up. The door is jammed again.”

The door opened and a boyish looking, blonde boy in a neat, black coat and white blouse opened. “I am sorry, Mr. Childermass.” He gave the other man an eerie gaze as Childermass trotted passed him. He was a towering and intimidating figure with his ragged clothes, his pale, yet dark and gloomy face and the raspy voice. Yorkshire. His accent clearly showed and gave his vocals a raspy, sharp tone, mixed with a soft murmur, making him rather hoarse.

“How many times did I tell you to fix the door?”, asked Childermass as he stripped off his jacket and placed his hat on the hook. Water dropped everywhere. “Way too many times”, murmured Tobias. “That was a rhetorical question.” Taking the letters he had hidden in his clothing, Childermass moved passed him.

Tobias called after him: “Master Lascelles is in his office and has given order not to be disturbed in his work!” “Bad luck”, bellowed Childermass, “I don't care.” Trampling upstairs, the man off business made his way towards his owner's office. Lascelles had demanded off him to collect the certifications of debt and he would deliver them.

Mr. Lascelles was a tall man with a haggard face, red hair and strict, colour eyes. He was wearing a maroon jacket, dark trousers and a white blouse underneath it. The man was sitting at a large table, papers spread all over its surface. He was holding a letter in his slender hands, the pen, resting in its ink.

Childermass announced himself by sharply knocking against the door frame. He did not waited for Lascelles to order him to enter. He just did it. The man off business slowly crossed the carpet and stopped before his master's table. Lascelles looked up and frowned in anger. “You're as wet as a dog”, he snarled, “and you are gonna ruin the carpet. Dry yourself off properly the next time.”

Childermass shrugged. “Sure.” He dropped the letters before Mr. Lascelles. “There.” His master's eyes flashed and he placed his working material down. Swooping up the certifications, he read through them, his expression grim and sour. His servant kept standing by his side, waiting silently.

Lascelles leaned himself back in his chair and gazed upwards. “The how many certification of debt of Drawlight is this by now?”, he asked bitterly. “The tenth”, responded Childermass, “I counted.”

Lascelles' nostrils flared as he snorted. “No doubt he is gonna come to me within the next few days and ask for money. And despite being peeved, I am gonna give him a good amount. Again.” He shook his head with a frustrated sigh and closed his eyes.

“Forgive me, Sir”, Childermass mused thoughtfully, “however I do believe you are following Drawlight's demands a little too freely.” Lascelles opened his eyes and looked at the other man. He did not liked him entirely, but John was reliable, skilled and better then most off his servants. Even if he could hardly keep his mouth shut. “I beg you pardon”, repeated Henry and quirked a brow.

Childermass explained: “Drawlight is the type of person that will never do any kind off work and always relies on others. He praises luxury more then anything else. I know, you too have a sense for the shiny, however Drawlight forgets everything else. He won't do anything about his debts. And why? Because he knows that he can count on you. No matter how much debt he is in, he will always crawl -”

There was a fast and heavy blow, followed by a sharp pain off fire near his cheek. Lascelles had given Childermass a smack across his face. The man off business fell silent and grunted. He carefully massaged his cheek. The flesh burnt and felt swollen. Sometimes it was incredible how much force the red haired editor had in his slender arms.

Childermass was not surprised. Sticks, stones, belts. Mr. Lascelles always had something nearby he could throw or hit at his man off business, when this one was talking too much. Childermass was the most beaten off all servants and the one that was the longest in service. Which was a miracle. Usually Lascelles would have fired somebody like him. On the other hand, no one could do the job as properly and excellently as Childermass could. Therefore the editor tolerated him rather reluctantly.

Lascelles hissed: “I know Christopher, Childermass. I probably know him better then you do. You should watch your tongue. You know how much I hate it if people try to exploit me.” (That he had no problem exploiting _them_ was an entirely different matter.) Lascelles pulled on his satin gloves and rose. Walking around his table, he stopped before Childermass. His brown eyes were narrowed in evil deeds.

“However you do have a point”, Lascelles hissed, “I am sick off this ridiculous vicious circle. So you better do what you do best. Take care off this problem for me.” Childermass merely nodded. “Aye, Sir.” He stepped back and slowly left the room.

Taking his hat from the hook, the dark haired man took his leather gloves and stripped them on. The other servants watched him wearily. Nobody really knew what Childermass' _actual_ position was in this house. It was obvious that he was not just an ordinary man off business who handled his master's affairs. No. Despite nobody really voicing it, everybody knew what his actual purpose was. And therefore Tobias and the other man watched Childermass leave through the kitchen door once again, whispering to themselves. The Editor's Blood Hound was on another hunting session. His loyal night shadow.

Drawlight resided in an apartment over a shoemaker shop. It did not surprised Childermass at all. This man was all off shine with no substances. Reflected light upon a mirror. Sure, he was a good-looking, elegant fellow, despite his small stature but when it came to money he was indeed poor. The only reason Drawlight could afford all these things he owned was because he lent money. He lent it and he never gave it back.

Childermass had pulled his hat deep in his face. He was busily circling the house, his cloak swooping around his steps, until he finally found a possible entrance. A roasted ladder that reached up to a window. Taking a hold off it, Childermass climbed up and pushed the window open. With a low thud he landed in the room.

It was some kind of mixture off dinner and saloon room. Green walls, a fire, burning in the chimney, and a comfy couch. On it sat a startled looking Drawlight. He was wearing a long, navy blue cloak and his face was powdered. Turning his head, the dark eyes widened in surprise and shock.

“Oh my goodness!”, he squeaked, “It is you, Childermass. You scared me!” He clutched his hand to his heart and took a deep breath. Childermass slowly closed the window. “Now that is a very weird way off visiting somebody, isn't it?”, called Christopher, while he watched the dark man slowly place his hat on the table.

Childermass peeled his hands out off the leather gloves. “Aye”, he responded, “I hope, y'don't get mad for me forgetting to announce myself. It came in quite a hurry.” Flinging the gloves into his hat, Lascelles' man off business stated: “I am here because off your debts.”

Christopher's powdered face gained the colour off cream cheese. “My debts, right...” He chuckled nervously and started to twirl his thumbs. “You see, Childermass, I was about to ask Henry if he could help an old friend. I am in a terrible debt again. And I really do not want to get into the work house. Please tell me, you have come here to tell me that Henry is gonna help me.”

“That is why I am here.” Childermass slowly advanced towards the other one. His shoes barely made a sound as they applied pressure to the wooden floor. His shadow was thrown against the wall. “You see, Christopher Drawlight, my master Henry Lascelles has a little problem. That problem are your debts. He is sick off it. You cannot get your act together, gentleman. Therefore someone has to pull you out off your pit and put an end to this.”

Drawlight backed away until his back hit the wall. “I don't like this!” His shriek was loud and shrill. Childermass threw an anxious look at the door, however it remained closed. “Please, Drawlight”, the man off business said coolly, “Do not make this more complicated. See it as a favour from my master. You won't have to worry about the work house anymore. You do not have to worry about anything anymore.”

Childermass shook his left arm and a knife slide out off it, the handle landed safely in his palm. Trapping Drawlight on the sofa by just preventing him from standing up, the dark haired man placed his finger on his lips. Drawlight was so terrified by now he could not even squeak. Just whimper. “Please don't...”

The next move happened fast. Childermass leaned forwards and pressed a hand on Drawlight's mouth. The dagger swung through the air and the blade jabbed itself into Christopher's throat. Once, twice. Blood shot out in a fountain and the red jewels landed on Childermass' hand. He quickly stepped back and let the other one bleed out. Drawlight convulsed one more time and fell silent.

Childermass' work was not done here. He took the bloodied dagger and squeezed it into Drawlight's hand after he had whipped the handle clean with his handkerchief. The man off business carefully moved through the crime scene, making sure to avoid everything that could betray him. He found a drawer and pulled it open. There they laid. Drawlight's certifications of debt.

Childermass took them all and moved to the fire place. Softly throwing them in, he watched the flames consume the paper, melt wax, parchment and ink into an undefined lump. He made sure one off the pages were partly visible. Now the place looked like Drawlight had committed suicide instead off being coldly murdered.

Pulling his gloves over the bloodied hands and placing his hat on his black hair, Childermass climbed out off the window, closed it and departed from the crime scene. His work was done. At Convent Garden, he and Tobias met again in the corridor. Tobias was about to bring Lascelles tea and some fruits for refreshment.

Childermass patted on the man's shoulder. “May I?”, he asked coolly and the men switched places. Tray balancing on his hand, the dark haired servant entered Lascelles' office again. The editor was sitting by the fireplace, legs crossed, buried in a book. He looked up when Childermass entered. “You switched places with Tobias again”, he said, his expression sour.

Hand behind his back, Childermass placed the tray down. “It is done”, was all he said. Lascelles' expression brightened for a couple off seconds. He was about to take his teacup, when he noticed Childermass still standing there. “Get out, Yorkshire Gutter-brat”, hissed Lascelles, “I'd like to be alone.”

Nodding, Childermass retreated himself. Outside the house people would see a dark haired man lean against the wall, legs crossed, carefully pulling at his pipe. Childermass had buried his hat in his face and closed his eyes partly, feeling the autumn sun warm his skin. He kept puffing at his pipe and watched the smoke fly away. Until the next bloody deed.


End file.
